


You're Not Listening

by mywholecry



Category: Bandom, Gold Motel, Panic At The Disco, The Like
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Community: bandombigbang, F/F, Feminist Themes, Genderswap, Homophobia, Riot Grrrls, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywholecry/pseuds/mywholecry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Summerlyn, 1992, and Brendon's getting tired of keeping secrets about herself. From her taste in music to her lack of interest in finding suitable marriage material, she knows that there are a lot of things about her that would break her parents' heart. On top of all of that, Brendon's in high school, she's kind of desperately lonely, and she's also pretty sure she's gay.</p><p>It's only after she starts hanging out with Z, Tennessee, and Greta, a group of friends who call themselves riot grrrls, that things seem to go right for Brendon, and she finally starts to realize that the one heart she needs to worry about the most isn't her mom's or dad's. It's her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Listening

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wave 2 of the 2011 Bandom Big Bang
> 
> All my thanks and love to moony_luna for the beta (any mistakes within are all my own). Also, I can’t express enough appreciation for fictionalaspect and rokittomars for their mix and art, respectively. Even if you don’t read this story, check their work out. Otherwise, oh my god, three cheers for the Bandom Big Bang mods.
> 
>  
> 
> [ Take Back Your Own Tonight](http://mywholecry.livejournal.com/50225.html?format=light) by fictionalaspect  
> [Art](http://mywholecry.livejournal.com/49532.html?format=light) by rokittomars

Brendon spends a lot of time sitting on curbs.

It’s not that great, being the youngest in a family of so many kids, especially when they’ve all left home but her. She thought maybe by the time she was old enough to do things on her own, her parents would be too tired to make her abide by all of their rules, but she’s sixteen and isn’t allowed to have a car of her own or stay out past nine. So, she spends a lot of time sitting on curbs watching everyone else go home from school while she waits for her mom to finish her shopping. Brendon doesn’t know what she’d do if she wasn’t waiting in the parking lot, but she thinks maybe she could find something that wouldn’t leave her reading in her bedroom by six or hiding to avoid having to lie to her parents about how great her day at school was.

It’s later than usual, and Brendon’s drumming out a steady beat on the sidewalk with her pen, not looking up as the teachers start to leave the school. If it starts to get dark, she’s going to have to go talk to the janitors again so she can use the phone in the front office and make sure they didn’t mix up who was supposed to come get her. For all that her parents are dealing with only having one kid left in their house, sometimes they don’t realize that none of her siblings are going to come pick Brendon up anymore.

She’s trying to make something out of the beat, singing soft nonsense with her eyes trained toward the sky and the cheap plastic click-click-clicking, when she hears the familiar low hum of her mom’s mini-van parking a few feet away from her.

When she pulls herself up into the passenger seat, her mother half-smiles at her and says, “I’m sorry, honey, I got caught up talking to Mrs. Turner. Melissa’s mom?”

Melissa Turner is in the same youth group with Brendon, at church. She smiles too much and always has the right answers during Bible studies, and her dresses are always perfectly pressed. Brendon absolutely hates her.

Brendon makes a questioning noise in lieu of speaking, turning to look at her mom while they pull away from the sidewalk, and she settles in to listen to a story about the Turners’ spring vacation.

Halfway home, her mom turns up the gospel album in her tape player, and Brendon thinks about the Christmas money that she’s been saving up to buy herself a Walkman so she can listen to the tapes she’s been hiding under her mattress while she’s at school. Most of them she found in the attic, the Beatles and the Zombies and other things from her dad’s rebellious phase before he settled into the church and started a family. When she was home alone the other day, though, she walked into town for long enough to spend her allowance on a bottle of Coke and a tape that some of the kids in jazz band were talking about, _Nevermind_. One of the other bass players had played part of one the songs loud enough that they could all hear it, tinny and muffled, through his headphones. She can still hear it, over and over in her head.

She leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes.

*

Brendon’s dad is working on Saturday, and her mom leaves after making lunch to go volunteer at the women’s shelter in the next town over. Brendon goes to help, sometimes, but today she bowed out with homework complaints. As soon as she hears the van drive away, she goes to her room and drags the old stereo and the box of albums from under her bed. She’s got albums that her parents approve of, the kind of stuff they’ve bought her for Christmas ever since she taught herself how to play the acoustic guitar that her brother Mason abandoned after a few days of lessons. And while she appreciates what James Taylor has done for her, she’s still more attached to the things she’s gathered on her own, to the copies of Ziggy Stardust and London Calling that she got at a yard sale down the street, to Patti Smith yelling about her generation in Brendon’s ear at night.

She tucks the Nirvana tape into the back pocket of her jeans and carries the stereo into the living room. She has to crawl under her dad’s armchair to get to the only open outlet before she can balance the stereo carefully on its arms. She holds onto it while she puts the tape in, only letting go after she’s pressed play and made sure the volume isn’t so loud that the neighbors might hear through the open windows.

It takes her five seconds into the first song, Smells Like Teen Spirit, to give up and turn the volume up as loud as it can go. It’s not hot enough to warrant turning on the air conditioning, or that’s what her dad says, so Brendon strips off her white t-shirt and moves to lie on the floor in her camisole so she can feel the music in her shoulder blades.

She added it up last night that she’d have enough time to listen to it twice before there was any risk of someone coming home. By the time the first song is over, she scrambles to get up and rewind it to listen to it again. When the singer starts chanting _hello, hello, hello, hello_ close to her ear, she’s got her back arched up off the floor and is trying to figure out the chords in her head, fingers curled around an imaginary guitar.

(She listens to it three and a half times and has to rush to switch the albums and find her homework before her dad gets to the door.)

*

At church in the morning, Brendon has a harder time concentrating than she normally does. She fidgets and kicks her feet against the pew, the priest’s words passing over her head while she goes over brief bits of lyrics in her head and tries to imagine them in her own voice. Her dad puts a hand on her shoulder and gives her a stern look like she’s still twelve and he’s going to start quizzing her on what the sermon was about, and she laces her fingers in her lap and tries to stare straight ahead.

When it’s time for the choir, Brendon stands up and takes her place in the center, smiling at everyone. She never gets nervous when they’re all singing with her. It feels like the kind of friendship she hasn’t had in awhile, even if it’s only for a few songs every Sunday.

She starts singing too loud midway through the first hymn, and she realizes it right before her mother makes a face at her and motions for her to lower her voice. She stumbles over the next line and spends the rest of the time mouthing the words, trying to smile like she means it.

Before the service ends, the priest stands up and announces that their new youth group leader has finally joined them. All the girls in the choir have been gossiping about him for weeks, because they rarely get new people in the church, so Brendon turns in her seat to look at him when he stands up to wave. He’s dressed neatly in a pale blue shirt and creased black pants, and he has sandy hair cut short and close to his skull. When he sits down, the people around him turn to whisper quiet greetings, and Brendon turns back around to face the front.

Afterwards, he gathers the youth group outside in the sunlight, and he tells them to call him Jack. Brendon nods along while he talks, shooting glances at where people are starting to leave to go home and have lunch with their families, clustering around the rows of cars and saying good-bye. When Jack’s finished introducing himself, he says, “I won’t keep you from escaping any longer,” and everyone laughs. Brendon turns to head for her dad’s car, but he takes the sleeve of her cardigan, keeping her there.

She turns back to look at him, a little surprised. She asks, “Yes?” and carefully pulls her arm away from him, hoping he won’t even notice that it made her uncomfortable.

“For the record, I liked your singing,” he says, smiling warmly. “I think you should sing as loud as you want.”

 

“You should tell my mother that,” she says, before she can stop herself, and he laughs and pats her on the shoulder.

He seems nice, anyway, and Brendon rocks on her toes and smiles back, just a little. She’d heard the other girls talking as they left the church, whispering to each other about how hot he is, and Brendon doesn’t think she’s feeling the same things they are. She usually isn’t. He just seems nice, maybe like he’s trying really hard, but Brendon stills tries to see what they must be seeing in a thin nose, full lips, big dark eyes. He looks young except for when he smiles, because Brendon knows the only way you can smile with that much confidence is when you consider yourself an adult.

He escorts her to where her parents are waiting by the car and introduces himself personally. After her parents are done fawning over him, the charming religion major looking for church experience with the pressed clothes and shiny shoes, he says, “Your daughter has a great voice. You should talk to the choir director about her getting more solos.”

Her mother smiles and says, “That’s so kind of you to say,” and Jack excuses himself to go back to the pastor’s office, telling them he’ll hope to see them on Wednesday for worship and classes.

On the way home, her mother says, “It looks like someone’s taken an interest in our Brendon,” in a strange, pleased voice, and Brendon wishes she wasn’t old enough to know what she means by that.

“ _Mom_ ,” she says, making a face that she hopes can be seen in the rear view mirror.

Her father just says, gruffly, “He seems like a fine boy.”

Brendon thinks: _I’m only sixteen_ and _he’s a boy, he’s a boy_ in that way she’s been trying not to, lately.

*

Brendon tried for a long time to have crushes on the right people, to understand who she was supposed to be fantasizing about. Mostly, she just didn’t have crushes at all, and she thought maybe she was broken for a really long time. It wasn’t until eighth grade when Tennessee Thomas moved to Summerlin and promptly kissed Z Berg on the mouth during lunch that Brendon really understood what everyone else must be feeling, just maybe in reverse.

It felt kind of like waking up, seeing them together. It was the day she realized that she was trying to have crushes on the wrong people, even if she pushed it aside and pretended like she didn’t know for years and years, letting it sit in the back of her head like a secret that she doesn’t need anyone else to keep.

She’s really good at pretending, pretending that she’s on the right path, that she didn’t come home and cry that day last year when someone scrawled out DYKE in red sharpie on Z’s locker.

Nobody ever got in trouble for it, and Z refused to let them clean it off. Brendon’s heart tugs every time she walks past it.

*

Everyone in the church loves Jack. It’s like he doesn’t even have to do anything but be himself. Brendon tries not to be jealous, but it’s hard when Jack insists on trying to be her best friend. He tells her jokes and compliments her outfits and always picks her on Wednesday nights to help lead whatever kids he’s working with. She tries to return the favor, but it’s not easy. For one thing, she’s out of practice, and for another, she’s not the only one that’s noticed what he’s doing.

Brendon’s never asked Jack to pay more attention to her, but the Melissa Turner and the other kids at church don’t seem to realize it. It’s just another reason they don’t seem to like Brendon, but it’s not a big loss. They’ve never liked Brendon, not when she was young and too excited and all over the place, and not now that she’s grown older and learned how to keep quiet and pretend like she’s not feeling anything. And it definitely doesn’t matter, but maybe Brendon’s stomach turns over when she hears them talking about her, when they make up things about how she’s been throwing herself at Jack and use words that feel hard and physical, like when Melissa throws a glance at Brendon over her shoulder and laughs out the word, “Slut,” to the girls sitting next to her.

It really doesn’t matter, though. She’s gotten used to stuff like that. It’s almost better than being at school, where she’s next to invisible.

On Wednesday, a few weeks in, her dad has stayed late at work and her mom’s home sick with the flu. When they’re late to pick her up, Jack offers her a ride home, and she takes it even though it makes her feel antsy, nervous. He doesn’t turn on the radio when they get in, and they talk haltingly about church and the kids they’ve been working with. He asks her about school, and she lies to him like she lies to her parents, with an “It’s fine,” and a reference to the fact that she gets good grades. She feels like she’s just being polite, and maybe it’s nice that someone thinks she’s interesting enough to want to spend time with.

When Jack pulls up in front of the driveway, she thanks him.

He says, “Any time, Brendon,” and rests a big hand on her knee for just a moment, clasping gently. Brendon gets out of the car without saying anything else. She feels sick to her stomach, but she doesn’t think she has a reason. It’s not like it means anything. Brendon used to be clingy when she was younger, used to love hand holding and hugs and sitting on top of everyone in her family, and it was never weird then. Even if he never pays this kind of attention to anybody else, then maybe it’s just flirting. It’s harmless.

She checks in on her mom after she lets herself inside, and her mom says, voice rough from coughing, “Jack’s such a nice boy, isn’t he? I think it’s wonderful that you two are growing close.”

Brendon hums a noise that’s not quite agreement, because she doesn’t really know if it’s wonderful yet.

“Do you want more tea?” she asks, and her mom waves her away, telling her to go finish up her homework and not to worry. Brendon’s dad will be home, soon, and he’s good at taking care of her when she’s not feeling well.

*

In jazz band practice, Brendon tries to talk to some of the boys about _Nevermind_ before the teacher gets there, and they look at her like she’s speaking a different language. One of them mutters, “Maybe you should stick to church music,” like he doesn’t care if Brendon hears him.

She pretends like she doesn’t and goes to sit at the piano tucked into the corner until practice starts. She plays quiet enough that she’s pretty sure nobody can hear her.

At lunch, she sits a few tables away from where Z and Tennessee are sharing a seat and talking animatedly to a pretty blonde girl across from them. Brendon’s never seen her before, and she tries not to stare too long in case one of them notices. Not that part of her doesn’t want them to notice, but the rest of her would rather keep her head down and doodle music notes all over the cover of her binder until the bell rings again. It’s easier that way, if they don’t know she’s watching. They get watched enough as it is.

*

The kindergarten youth group is supposed to be putting on a show for the church before the school year’s out, and Brendon finds herself volunteered along with Jack to help them pick out songs after classes on Wednesday. They take paper towel tubes and let the kids cover them with construction paper and fill them up with rice to make shakers. Brendon leads them in every children’s hymn she knows and tries not to notice that Jack watches her sing.

When class is over, the parents all help clean up the rice that’s ended up on the floor, and Brendon and Jack are left alone once they all go home.

Brendon stands up to leave, brushing off rice from her skirt into her hand to throw away, but Jack says, "Hold on, Bren, do you think I could run some lesson plans by you?"

"Sorry, I really need to get home," Brendon says. "Mom's probably worried that I'm not back. You know how she is."

Her mom's probably pleased that she's still here, actually. If it was Brendon out with a boy outside the church this late at night, she would ground her forever, and Brendon knows it. But since it's Jack, who would never do anything that wasn't Christ-like, her mom would rather Brendon spend time with him than time at home.

"You're with me, it's fine," he says, because Jack knows all of that, too. "Besides, it'll just take a minute."

It takes more than a minute. When Brendon sits down next to him again, he moves his chair closer, and their knees touch while he shows her the outlines for a discussion on the Gospel of Luke. She listens patiently, trying to be helpful even while she's distracted by the way he keeps stopping to look at her while their faces are too close together, pausing on her mouth.

It's completely dark outside when Jack closes his Bible and turns so he's even closer to Brendon. He says, voice dark and low, "You know, you look prettier when you keep your hair away from your face."

He has a hand on her knee again, but this time his thumb slides up to stroke against her thigh through the fabric of her khakis. His other hand touches her hair, just briefly, and Brendon shoves her chair away from the table. She feels like her throat's closing up, like she can't breathe, and she shakes her head at Jack's "Hey, hey, I didn't mean to scare you," and backs away from him.

She says, almost too quiet, "I really can't do this with you, okay?" and "I need to get home," and rushes out before anything else that she can't control happens. She rides her bike home, breathing in thick humid air and dust kicked up under her tires.

She doesn’t tell her parents, because maybe it’s going to stop now, since she said no. It’s probably going to stop, and he can move on to someone who’s better at being what a girl in their church is meant to be.

Brendon’s still figuring it out.

*

In elementary school, the guidance counselors gave them talks and handed out pamphlets about personal space and unwanted touching. It talked about relatives and teachers. It never told her much about guys who aren’t much older than her, guys who she’s supposed to want to touch her. Besides, they stopped talking about those kinds of things once they all hit high school, and Brendon feels unprepared. Because Jack doesn’t stop anything. She keeps finding herself with his fingers lingering too long at the small of her back, just under her t-shirt, or they somehow end up pressed together in corners like it’s an accident. Brendon’s clumsy; she’d think it was an accident if she didn’t see the smiles.

She feels unprepared, and she feels stupid for letting it go on for so long. It’s just hard to see her mom so happy with her and know that it’s all because she has a pretty vision of Jack and Brendon doing the safe Mormon dating thing. She’s started buying Brendon new Sunday clothes and helping her fix her hair before church every morning, and Brendon knows she means well, but she feels like she’s being sold.

It wouldn’t be as bad, she’s sure of it, if she just knew whether her mom would be more disappointed that what Jack’s trying to do with her is definitely not church-approved or that Brendon doesn’t want him at all.

When Jack touches her with absolute purpose, when he gets her alone and runs fingers through her hair, slides hands over her hips, she always makes sure he knows she’s not interested. She didn’t always, before, when it just seemed like he was flirting with her, so maybe it’s her fault that it’s escalated so far. There’s still a part of her that thinks how she reacts is going to matter.

*

Brendon’s excited when her sister comes to visit with her little daughter since the first time since Christmas, because Kara is Brendon's secret favorite sibling, even though she’s not supposed to choose. Kara's never had the best relationship with their parents, either, and since she got divorced and decided to raise Bridget on her own outside of the church, it's been even more tense. While they're all together, Brendon tries to fill up all the empty spaces in the conversation until Kara starts rolling her eyes in her direction. Brendon just takes Bridget to her room to go through the old toys in her closet and tries not to listen when they start to raise their voices.

When their parents leave to take Bridget to the park, Kara makes them smoothies, and they sit out on the front step with their shoes kicked off.

She says, "So, Mom tells me you've got yourself a gentleman caller."

Brendon makes a face at her.

"It's not like that," she says.

"Oh, really?" Kara pokes her in the side, gingerly. "Because, sorry to say, but I think Mom's planning the wedding."

Brendon makes a low noise in her throat and drops her head to her knees, curling her arms around her legs. Her voice is muffled and sad when she asks, “Can I tell you something personal?”

“Of course,” Kara says. She leans in enough to slide an arm around Brendon’s shoulder, adding, quietly, “You know it, Bren.”

Brendon breathes in and out slowly, better with Kara close by, and then she starts: “I really don’t want anything to do with him,” and then tells her an abridged version of what’s been happening. She leaves out the worst things, like the last time Brendon was alone with Jack and he kissed her and Brendon had to try to forget that it was her first kiss like she’d been trying to forget a lot of things. It still sounds bad, though, and Kara’s arm tightens around her while Brendon talks. When she draws off, she finds herself being pulled into a full hug.

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” Kara’s voice is low and angry when she pulls away. “Mom or Dad or. . .god, honey, either of the boys would beat the shit out of him if they knew.”

“I don’t want my brothers to defend my honor,” Brendon says. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yeah, it is,” Kara says. “He’s taking advantage of you.”

Brendon leans her head against Kara’s shoulder.

“Kara, I’m sixteen,” she whispers. “Shouldn’t I _want_ to be taken advantage of?”

Kara laughs, quick and sharp, and pulls her into a hug.

“Not by some asshole college kid,” she says. “You get to want whoever makes you happy, Bren, and you don’t sound happy right now.”

Brendon pulls away to look at her, eyes wide. She wants to tell Kara something else, something she hasn’t even let herself think about for long enough to put it into words. She thinks maybe Kara knows already, though. She’s always been good at stuff like that.

“No,” Brendon says. “I’m not that happy.”

Later, she asks Kara not to tell her parents because she doesn’t know what’s going to happen when they find out, but she hears them talking about it, anyway. She lingers in the hallway outside the living room and eavesdrops. Kara doesn’t tell them everything that Brendon told her, but she does tell them that she doesn’t think Jack has good intentions and that they should treat Brendon more carefully. Her parents don’t sound happy about getting advice from her.

When Kara leaves in the morning after hugging Brendon tight and whispering, “You deserve the world, kid,” into her ear, Brendon keeps waiting for her parents to say something, but they don’t. They probably don’t think it’s a big deal. They’ve been waiting for awhile for someone to express interest in Brendon. After all, she’s the late bloomer in her family. All four of her siblings had proper, family friendly relationships and less proper, secret relationships before they were sixteen, and Brendon’s always been a little slower at this growing up thing than them.

Maybe it’s better if they don’t know how bad it is.

*

Brendon starts to feel out of control, but it’s all in her head, this stupid, sharp feeling like her life isn’t hers anymore, like everything’s rushing forward and out of her grasp. At school, she keeps away from people, even more than when she stopped trying to force them to like her sometime last year. They don’t notice, but she didn’t really expect them to.

She’s sitting in the back of the library during her lunch break because the idea of even stepping into the cafeteria has started to make her nervous, antsy. She’s hidden at the table behind the magazine racks, looking through the newest copy of Newsweek and thinking about maybe skipping her last class and taking a nap when a title, big and bold, catches her eye: **_REVOLUTION, GIRL STYLE._**

It’s a story about these kids, these teenagers who call themselves _riot grrrls_ and meet up and talk about things that she knows other people are too freaked out to talk about. They play the music that they want to play, and they don’t let what other people are doing to them or saying about them define them. Brendon’s stunned. The only thing she can compare the feeling to is seeing Z and Tennessee together, that first time, and even that seems to dim in comparison. Brendon feels a useless, silly ache all through her body looking at the pictures, at the story of a girl who fought back against a boy who was harassing her, who yelled, “Don't touch me or my friends!”

Brendon wants to be that person so bad it _hurts._

She glances up to see that nobody is looking, then carefully rips the article out, staples bending up. She hides it in her history book and smiles at the librarian as she’s leaving.

*

Every song on _Nevermind_ sounds dulled and wrong on her cheap guitar, but Brendon plays them, anyway. She can do it while her parents are home as long as she sings quietly enough that they can’t hear the lyrics. At every chorus, she has to choke down her voice, lying on her back with the guitar resting in the curve of her stomach.

She gets too loud, once, voice rising and breaking at the edges on _I like it, I’m not gonna crack,_ and her mother’s footsteps echo in the hallway. She opens Brendon’s door without knocking, stepping halfway in.

She asks, “What are you playing, honey?” and Brendon presses her hand over the strings to stop the sound. She can still feel the vibrations in her fingers.

“Nothing,” she says, smiling and sitting up. “Just making things up.”

Her mother _hmms,_ long fingernails tapping discordant on the door frame.

“You know,” she says, “Jack told me he thought you should play guitar for the youth group, sometime. I’m sure I still have some of the books we bought Mason, if you wanted to take a look.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, forgetting to smile. “Yeah, thanks, I’ll do that.”

When her mother leaves, Brendon crawls off the bed and onto her knees next to it, lifting her mattress up. She pulls out the riot grrrl article and looks at the names of the bands again, Bikini Kill and Bratmobile. Someday, she’s going to get to the record store in town again and see if they have any of their albums. She needs to hear them soon or she feels like she’s going to _burst_. She’d looked them up the computers at the local library while her mom was looking for books, and there were pages and pages with lyrics and pictures of girls in torn clothing with wicked grins, angry words and all the world’s problems on their shoulders, written on their stomachs and forearms in big letters. They look like Brendon feels, like they've been hurt and done wrong and told what to do and they're tired of it and actually doing something about. They're doing what Brendon’s dying to. They’re telling the truth.

Later, her mother brings her back a pile of dusty books full of sheet music. She learns how to play “Jesus Loves You” in five minutes and shows her parents after dinner just to hear them clap for her.

*

Brendon starts to follow Z and Tennessee more in the hallways like she did for awhile back when they were younger, almost unconsciously at first. When she realizes that she’s gone out of her way to go by their lockers, she tells herself that she just wants to live vicariously through them. They’re doing all kinds of things she can’t ever imagine doing herself, no matter how much she might want to.

Z's hair is cropped short and slicked back. She wears clothes that look like she borrowed them from her father, dark dress pants and clean white shirts and ties worn loose around her neck. Brendon tries not to stare at her too much, because everyone else does. Brendon is small and boring enough that nobody notices when she's around, and she's heard what the guys say about Z. They might call her a bitch and a dyke where she can hear them, but they fantasize about her, about what they want to do to her. Brendon tries not to listen when they talk about it. She'd rather watch the way Z and Tennessee, who wears torn stockings and tiny lace baby doll dresses and always has wild hair, hold hands in the hallway and block out the rest of the world.

She’s leaning against her locker between class periods and watching them over her copy of _The Scarlet Letter_ when she notices that both of their hands are covered in words written out in a dark magic marker scrawl. She shoves her books into her locker and shuts it with just enough time to spot them farther along in the highway, rounding a corner. She's not sure what she's looking for, even, but she breathes out a sigh when she sees Z standing in front of Tennessee near the girls' bathroom, hand spread out on the wall next to her. When Brendon walks past, slowly, she can see the words clearly: RIOT GRRRL, jagged hearts all around them. She feels like her heart’s going to stop.

During her next class, while the teacher is trying to pretend like they're not all taking trig because it's required, Brendon copies the words out in small, neat letters on the palm of her hand and can’t stop staring at it.

*

It’s hard to ignore Jack when they’re alone, which is why Brendon’s taken it upon herself to never be alone with him. It involves a lot of volunteering to help with other groups and spending more time with her mom and the women’s auxiliary, which is worth it even when the women all ask her whether she’s found anyone special then hides smiles behind their hands like they know something she doesn’t.

It doesn’t help that her parents _wants_ her to spend more time with Jack. Every time they talks about him, Brendon wants to spit something out about them liking Jack more than Brendon does. She wants to bite back and curl up and sleep more than she has been. It’s easier just to listen to her dad talk about how good Jack’s going to be when he gets his own church, though.

And that’s why her mom volunteers Brendon to help Jack run the Wednesday night classes for the younger kids. She’d smiled wide and said, “Brendon loves kids,” while Brendon had stood behind her and felt her heart shrinking and shrinking.

And that’s why Brendon’s alone with him in the church once the kids have all been picked up. She’s cleaning up the dishes, hyperaware of all the lights out in the rest of the church and of him humming quietly from the other room. She’s not said much all night. It never really makes a difference how she acts, but she thinks maybe it might change things, in the end, if it doesn’t seem like she’s asking for any attention at all.

She’s carefully wiping off silverware under hot water, thinking maybe nothing’s going to happen, when she hears the sound of footsteps moving closer. Her shoulders go straight and still when he steps up behind her, so his chest is pressed up against her back and the counter top is tight against her stomach.

She says, “Stop,” but it comes out shaky, with less heat than she’s feeling. She sweeps a hand under the standing water, feeling for the handle of the knife that she used to cut up carrots earlier.

“I just want to show you how pretty I think you are,” he says, and he says _show you_ and not _tell you_ and slides a hand down to splay fingers over her hip.

She says, “ _Please_ , get away from me,” and he makes a shushing noise, like they’re playing a game or something, like she doesn’t mean it or like that doesn’t _matter_. She steels herself when his other hand slides up over her ribcage.

He says, “So pretty, Bren,” and Brendon draws in a shuddering breath and uses all of her strength to push away from him. She puts as much distance as she can between them, crossing the kitchen with her back to the stove and holding out the knife, trying to will her hand to stop shaking. It’s wet and dripping on the floor, and Jack laughs. He looks nervous, and Brendon _wants_ him to look nervous. She wants him to be just as scared as she’s been. He needs to know what he’s been doing.

“Hey, now,” he says. “Don’t overreact.”

Brendon can’t look at him.

“Don’t touch me again,” she says, eyes trained at his feet, waiting for him to do something. Her voice doesn’t even sound like her own, pitched low and fierce and desperate. She doesn’t know how long he stands there looking at her, at the knife that she knows she won’t be able to use if it comes down to it, but eventually he walks out of the kitchen. She can’t move until she hears the door slam and the sound of his car starting.

Brendon walks home in the dark, arms wrapped around herself. Her parents ask her if she had fun, and they both smile at her, expectantly. It feels real. It feels like they’re proud of her, like they haven’t been, maybe ever.

She says, “Yeah, of course,” and goes to her room to hide her face in her pillow and bite back the tears she can feel stinging behind her eyes.

*

The next Sunday, it’s like nothing has changed. Jack’s still there, smiling like always. He says the opening prayer, and Brendon can feel his eyes on her while she sings, and she tries so hard not to look back.

Halfway through the service, she’s shaking bad enough that her mom notices, and Brendon convinces her in hushed whispers to let her go outside and get some air. They always sit in the front pew, so people’s heads turn as she walks out of the sanctuary and into the heat outside. Five minutes of sitting on the front steps and her white sundress is sticking to her back with sweat. She should go back inside and just deal with it, she knows, but she also knows that she can’t go back inside.

Instead, she stands up on unsteady feet and starts walking down the street.

At home, she paces the living room until her feet start to hurt, pinched by her flats.

She stares at herself and the flickering colors from the TV in the reflection of the living room window. Her hair falls in long waves past her shoulders and down her back, and, right now, it feels like she's suffocating. She pulls it all back with one fist and squints at herself, and she already knows what she's going to do before she runs to the kitchen and grabs her mom's craft scissors. In the bathroom, she turns all the lights on and starts cutting at her hair before she can stop herself.

Twenty minutes later, most of her hair is on the floor at her feet, and she feels better than she’s felt in a long time. She runs fingers over her scalp to smooth it down, and it’s curling right at the base of her neck, barely covering her ears at the side. In the mirror, she looks smaller, moon-faced and pale, but she also thinks she looks more like herself than she ever has.

She cleans up everything carefully, sweeping up the hair and putting it in the trash, washing off the scissors in the kitchen sink. When her parents get home, calling her name as they open the door, she’s sitting on the sofa again. There’s a minister talking on the television, but she’s not really been listening.

“Brendon,” her mom says, eyes wide. “What did you _do_?”

“I,” she says, then swallows hard, nervous. “I have something I have to tell you.”

“You can’t walk home alone, Brendon, you could get hurt,” her dad says, from the hall, but when he walks in and sees her, he stops still.

Brendon clears her throat, running a hand through her hair, feeling it stand up under her fingers.

“I have to tell you something,” she says, again, and they don’t move at all. Slowly, she tells them everything that’s happened over the last few weeks, every time that she said _no_ or walked away and Jack ignored her. By the end of it, her mom’s sitting next to her, and her dad is in his chair across the room.

When she stops talking, her mom says, “Honey, are you sure he didn’t think you were interested?” and Brendon _knows_. She knows from that and the way her dad’s not doing anything at all that they blame her. They might not say it, but Brendon knows. They think she brought it on herself, or that she's just being skittish because she's never liked a boy before, or that she’s exaggerating. It makes her feel like she’s on fire, like she’s burning up from the inside.

“I told him not to touch me,” she says. “I told him more than once.”

“And he should have listened,” her dad says, and Brendon looks up, hopefully. “He gave into temptation, and he shouldn’t have. You’re right to be angry with him.”

 _I’m not a temptation_ , Brendon thinks, and: _I’m not angry with him because he sinned, I’m terrified of him because he wouldn’t_ stop.

“I can’t go to church and pretend it didn’t happen,” she says. “I can’t, Dad.”

“He’s only going to be here until summer,” he replies. “We can keep you two apart and let it blow over.”

“But what if he does it again? To someone else?”

“I’m sure after what happened that he’s seen that he acted too rashly with you. It’s between him and God now.”

Acted too rashly is not how Brendon would put it, but her father’s sitting up with his shoulders straight, and she knows what that means. He’s not going to move on this. They’re going to ignore it, and Brendon thinks maybe that will be easier but knows that it won’t be _right._

They eat dinner in silence that night, and Brendon stays in her room doing homework until she catches her reflection in the mirror. She’s brushed her hair, and what’s left of her bangs fall in soft lines in front of her eyes. Breathing out a shaky sigh, she gets up and goes back to the living room, where her dad is sitting with the radio on and his newspaper out. She sits down on the arm of the sofa, waiting for him to react.

When he doesn’t, she says, quietly, “Dad, there are other reasons I didn’t want to be with Jack.”

Her dad’s head turns, just a fraction. He doesn’t quite look at her or her hair, and she doesn’t think he notices that she’s twisting her fingers in her lap the way she always does to keep her mind off the fact that she really, really wants to cry.

“Dad,” she says, breathing in sharply, “I think I’m. . .I mean, I _know_ I’m—”

“Brendon, don’t,” he says. He’s still not looking at her.

“ _Dad_.” She stands up to move in front of him, to make him look at her. Their eyes meet for maybe a second before he stands up, too, so he can look down at her. She can’t see anything in his face.

“Brendon, you’re young,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She laughs around a sob, saying, “God, sometimes I really don’t feel young at all,” and her dad’s face changes. He steps forward to grab her arm and pull her, and she makes a startled noise, stumbling after him.

“You’re getting hysterical,” he says, raising his voice as he tries to lead her to her room. She can see her mom standing in the doorway, crying. “You need to go to your room and rest, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“This isn’t _going away_!” Brendon yells, because she can’t control her voice anymore. She’s tired of controlling herself. “I can’t ignore it anymore, I can’t fix it, I can’t.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” he says. He’s stronger than she is, and she’s crying too hard to fight it when she’s in her bedroom and he’s shutting the door behind her. She can hear his footsteps echoing and the sound of him talking to her mother, calming her down. Brendon leans into the door, pressing her forehead against it, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m gay,” she says, for the first time.

She stays against the door for too long. She doesn’t want to face the silence of the room behind her back.

*

That morning, Brendon goes down to breakfast, and her parents act like nothing is different. The only clue that anything happened at all is her mom saying, lightly, “We’ll go to the salon and have them fix up your hair after school,” while she’s pouring coffee into mugs.

Brendon doesn’t say anything at all. If they’re going to ignore it, then the only thing she can think to do is ignore them for awhile. She learned how to do it from them, anyway. Her family are all experts at pretending like nothing’s wrong.

At school, a few more people look at her than usual. Brendon feels open and exposed without her hair, like everyone can see what she’s feeling even when though she’s never told them anything. In the hallway, she ducks her head to avoid meeting eyes until she passes Z’s locker. Tennessee is standing with her arms around Z’s waist, leaning down to talk in her ear.

As Brendon walks by, Z says something that she can’t quite hear, and Tennessee turns around to look at Brendon.

She walks faster.

*

Later on that week, she thinks she’s being subtle when she’s watching Z and Tennessee in the hallway again, but she's struggling through the mass of kids to get to lunch and is suddenly tugged into the girl's bathroom by her sleeve. She’s prepared for the worst, for someone really noticing that she’s changed and not liking what they saw, but then she's standing face to face with Z Berg. Z’s eyeliner is thick and there are little lightening bolts drawn in at the corner of her eyes, and she has the word REVOLUTION written out across her collarbones where her shirt is unbuttoned and pushed open to show pale skin, the top of her breasts. Brendon’s breath catches when she tries to breathe. She feels like she’s meeting a celebrity, but Z just looks angry, like she’s holding herself back.

She says, "So you should probably tell me what your problem is before I have to do something about this whole stalking business you've got going on."

Brendon shifts on her feet, watching her face in the mirror instead of meeting Z’s eyes.

"I just," she says, because her mouth is dry and Z's smirking now with her lips caught between her teeth, pale eyebrows raised. She makes a hurry-up motion with her hands, and Brendon chokes out, "Uh, riot grrrl, I wanted to know more about riot grrrl."

" _Oh_ ," Z says. She looks surprised, now. It makes her look less terrifying. "Tenn thought you wanted to bring me to Jesus or something."

"No," Brendon says, and she doesn't feel like she's lying, even though she’s still not sure what she still believes in and what she never believed in at all. "Nothing like that."

"Because I checked around about you, what with you stalking my person," Z says, taking a step forward, "and word on the street is that you're uber-religious, you’re one of the only girls in the jazz band, and you eat lunch alone in the library a lot."

Brendon smiles at her weakly and murmurs, "The uber-religious thing's the only part in question."

Z takes a moment to look her over and stops on her hair for a long moment. Brendon crosses her arms over her chest, hoping for something that she's not even sure she can properly name.

"Well, then," Z says. "Why don't we get out of here and I’ll introduce you to my compatriots?"

She doesn't wait for Brendon to agree. She’s wearing wingtips, and they tap the floor in rhythm as she walks out of the bathroom with Brendon following in her wake.

The cafeteria is crowded and loud when they walk inside, and the noise echoes off  
the walls. It makes Brendon flinch, and she remembers why she spends too much time alone lately. Z seems unfazed at the heads that turn around when they walk by, the people who don’t bother to lower their voices while they talk about her and maybe Brendon now, too.

Z doesn’t stop at any of the tables, but instead keeps walking until they’re at the double doors in the back that lead out to the bus parking lot. She looks over her shoulder and catches Brendon’s eye for a second before she pushes it open and slips outside. They’re not supposed to be outside unless it’s for a class, and Brendon hesitates for just long enough for the door to shut behind Z, who turns around to look at her expectantly through the glass. Brendon looks over her shoulder. Nobody’s looking at them anymore. Swallowing hard, she follows suit.

Outside, it’s hot even though it’s barely March, sun beating down on the concrete and brick. Tennessee is sitting with her back pressed against the wall, shoes kicked off and bare feet pink on the sidewalk. Her lace skirt is short and riding up over her hips, long legs covered in torn fishnets. The blonde girl Brendon noticed before is sitting beside her wearing tights and a too-big Patti Smith t-shirt, and she looks up at Brendon with bright eyes, pale hair falling in waves and curls around her face.

“Girls,” Z says, “this is Brendon. Brendon, I assume you know Tenn, and the other one’s Greta.”

“Brendon,” Greta says. She doesn’t smile when she says it, and Tennessee’s face is closed off and cautious whenever Brendon looks at her. “That’s a very. . .ambiguous name.”

“My parents wanted another boy,” Brendon says, raising a corner of her mouth. “So much that they never really thought up a name for if I wasn’t one.”

Tennessee winces.

“That’s fucked up,” she says, simply.

“Brendon wants to be empowered,” Z says, giving Tennessee a look that Brendon hopes is vouching for her being there, and really, Brendon just sort of wanted someone to talk to. It sounds nice, though. Once she seemingly has a conversation with Z entirely through their eyebrows, Tennessee scoots over and pats the ground between her and Greta. Brendon sits carefully between them, leaving space so they don’t touch and she can curl her legs up underneath her, pulling her denim skirt over her knees. Z sinks down to sit neatly and cross-legged on the asphalt in front of them, leaning forward with her arms resting on the sidewalk.

Greta shifts so they’re sitting hip to hip, so Brendon can feel the warm skin of her bare arms against her own. Greta says, “I just moved here a few months ago, I’ve never seen you before.”

“She’s from Washington,” Tennessee adds, “and is far more worldly than us.”

“Whatever, you live in _Vegas_ ,” Greta says, shaking her head so her hair covers up her eyes. “I honestly don’t understand how you’re not all coke addicts and showgirls.”

“Probably because we actually live in Summerlin,” Brendon offers. Z huffs out a laugh in agreement, and Brendon continues: “I actually haven’t even been to the strip.” Every time she’s told anybody else at school that, they’ve all acted shocked, like she’s missed out on some major aspect of her teenage existence by not sneaking away from her parents and trying to get into a strip club or something.

Z just leans forward enough to curl fingers around the toe of Brendon’s flats and squeeze lightly, and she says, “You’re not missing much. Once you get past the lights and the glitter, it’s just public drunkenness and dudes handing out porn on street corners.”

“Geez,” Greta drawls. “Way to ruin my expectations.”

“Viva Las Vegas,” Tennessee says, her voice sing-song and soft English accent lilting up.

Z lets go of Brendon’s foot, and Brendon looks up to smile at her.

“Hey, does anybody have a copy of the manifesto, the one the girl from Bikini Kill wrote?” Z asks, suddenly. “We need to let Brendon know what she’s getting into, hanging out with us.”

“That girl from Bikini Kill,” Greta says, scornfully. “She has a name, Z Berg.”

“We haven’t all worshiped at the feet of Kathleen Hanna, Salpeter,” Tennessee says, giggling.

“I had a very meaningful experience with her after a concert, okay,” Greta starts, and Z laughs, bright and loud, interrupting her, “Yes, we’ve heard, you touched her hand.”

“And then declared your love and ran away,” Tennessee says, gleefully.

Brendon turns to look at Greta. She’s blushing, face buried in her hands, and she says, voice muffled, “You’re going to make Brendon think I’m a loser.”.

“Not even,” Brendon says, and she leans into Greta just a little bit. She looks up and shoots her this brilliant, megawatt smile, and Brendon can’t look away, it’s so bright.  
“I mean, I would know about losers,” Brendon adds, and Greta’s smile flickers for just a moment.

“Well, if you want to be popular,” Z says, “You definitely don’t want to hang with us.”

“But if you want to be _badass_. . .” Tennessee says, drawing off and elbowing Brendon, gently. Brendon wraps her arms around her knees and smiles at the concrete.

“I could be into that,” she says, and then everyone starts talking at once, and Greta gives her a piece of paper that looks like it’s been photo-copied too many times. She says, “We signed it, because we’re cheesy, but it’s not really a law.”

Z says, solemnly, “It’s a way of life.”

Tennessee cracks up and starts pointing out her favorite parts to Brendon.

*

An excerpt from  
 _THE RIOT GRRRL MANIFESTO:_

 _BECAUSE we are angry at a society that tells us Girl = Dumb, Girl = Bad, Girl = Weak._

 _BECAUSE we are unwilling to let our real and valid anger be diffused and/or turned against us via the internalization of sexism as witnessed in girl/girl jealousism and self defeating girltype behaviors._

 _BECAUSE I believe with my wholeheartmindbody that girls constitute a revolutionary soul force that can, and will change the world for real._

“With my wholeheartmindbody,” Greta recites, and she hands Brendon a pen.

Brendon bends over to smooth the paper down on the sidewalk and sign her name neatly underneath Z’s jagged signature.

*

Greta says, before they have to separate to go to class, “You should come with us to my house after school. My parents are never around, so I’ve pretty much got free reign.”

Brendon knows that she’s supposed to meet her mom outside after school for her appointment at the salon. She was preparing herself for the inevitable questions all morning, the sad noises about her “beautiful, long hair” and the significant looks in the mirror to be shared with her mom sitting in the chair across the aisle.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

“Meet us in the arts wing?” Z asks. “Tenn’s always late from her sketching class.”

“Because I’m a star,” Tennessee says, grandly. “They adore me.”

“The teacher adores you,” Z says. “The art kids hate you.”

“Because they envy my incredible talent,” Tennessee replies. She ducks down to press a kiss to the top of Z’s head then sweeps down the hall. Brendon stays in the cafeteria longer than she should, watching them disappear into the crowd.

After her next class, she calls her mom and tells her they’re having an extra jazz band practice after school and, no, she doesn’t need to come pick her up. She can get a ride.

When her mom hangs up, Brendon thinks she should feel bad, but she doesn’t. She can’t. She’s too excited.

*

Brendon meets Z and Greta in the arts wing after school, and Greta wraps an arm around her waist, familiarly, like they didn’t just meet a few hours ago. She spends the whole time they’re waiting for Tennessee talking about how good the tapes are that her friend Cass sent her from Olympia.

“There’s this new group, Heavens to Betsy,” Greta says. “They’re fucking amazing, you’ll love them.”

Tennessee wanders out of one of the classrooms while Greta’s describing the songs, a sketchpad tucked under one of her arms and her bag slung over one shoulder. Her face lights up when she sees them, and she rushes forward, dropping her bag to the ground next to Brendon and saying, “Guess what I drew today?”

“Is it my face,” Z says, “because otherwise I’m not interested.”

“I draw your face _all the time_ ,” Tennessee says, rolling her eyes. “I mean, I love it and all, but I can’t be limited.”

She opens the sketchpad and flips through it before she says, “Ta da,” and holds it up for them. It’s definitely not Z’s face. Instead, it’s Brendon, smiling hesitantly with her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her hair is different, though, styled and shaved on one side, flopping down in her eyes. She’s never seen anything like it before.

“I look _amazing_ ,” Brendon says, and Tennessee grins at her.

“I used a yearbook picture, but you had long hair in it,” she explains. “Which, by the way, good choice cutting it, but I couldn’t picture your new hair well enough to sketch it, so I just drew what you would look cool with.”

“You should so get your hair cut like that,” Greta says, taking the picture from her to look at it more closely.

“Well, I am due for one that I didn’t give myself,’ she says, getting to her feet with the rest of them.

Z says, “Would you believe that Tenn is not only a talented artist but a semi-capable haircutter?”

Brendon says, “I might believe that,” and Tennessee crows, “I _love_ when people let me cut their hair,” and takes Brendon’s hand while she runs down the hall, messenger bag bouncing rhythmically against her legs.

*

It might be sad to say that it’s the best day that Brendon’s ever had, but it’s the best day that Brendon’s ever had. They listen to music that Brendon couldn’t even imagine before, and Greta throws a handful of tapes into her bag, saying, “I mean, Nirvana’s _good_ , but fuck them, you _need_ to be listening to Huggy Bear.”

When Tennessee gathers everything she needs, scissors from the kitchen and Greta’s dad’s electric shaver and an old floral towel to drape over Brendon’s shoulders, they crowd into Greta’s tiny half-bath. Greta turns up Bikini Kill so they can hear it all over the house. Z insists on taking about a million pictures to document the moment. After Tennessee’s finished with her, Greta grabs Z’s camera and pulls Brendon to her side, pressing their faces together. She takes a picture of them smiling at each other in the mirror. Brendon thinks she might like the feeling of it too much, warmth curling up in her stomach.

When she gets home and her parents ground her for an indefinate amount of time for lying and presumably for the haircut that her mom refuses to look at, Brendon isn’t surprised. She doesn’t really care, either, not even when they say that they’re disappointed in her. They’ve said it before, and it always used to feel like her heart broke a little bit. She knows they’re going to make her go to church every Sunday, though, and she’s disappointed, too. She’s starting to feel herself change from the inside out, and if she’s going to keep being disappointed by them, then she’s going to have fun while she’s doing it.

She deserves it, she thinks.

*

Brendon starts to eat lunch with them outside every day after that, listening to music by putting Greta’s walkman on the ground between them and turning up the volume so loud they can hear it sharp and tinny through the headphones. Sometimes, she lies on her back on the hot concrete, and Greta touches fingers to the shaved part of Brendon’s head like she’s asking for permission. Brendon always leans into the touch unconsciously, and she tries not to blush when Greta combs through her hair, smiling down at her.

When she has an emergency jazz band practice during their lunch period, she stops at Z’s locker to tell her, because she thinks maybe that’s something she can do now, worry that they might be worried about her. They’re in the middle of practicing their first song for the next recital, and she’s focusing intently on the music spread out in front of her when she hears a noise from across the room. Someone messes up behind her, and she looks up to see Greta and Z and Tennessee trying to sneak in and being completely unsuccessful. Tennessee is giggling, and Z is trying to make her quiet down, and Greta just looks at Brendon and makes a carry-on motion.

“Girls,” Mr. Conner says, dryly, raising his voice to talk over the handful of people who are still trying to play, “can I help you with anything?”

“Greta here is thinking about joining your prestigious band,” Z calls out, voice serious. “We brought her here so she could watch.”

“Of course,” Mr. Conner replies. “Just try to be quiet, yes?”

They nod in tandem, and Brendon tries to find where they left off without letting them distract her. It’s not easy. She’s figured out a lot of things about them in the time they’ve spent together so far, and one thing is that they’re very good at being distracting.

After practice, they gather around her and Greta says, “ _So_ , you seem to know your way around an upright bass.”

“I’m okay,” Brendon says. “I’m better at other things.”

“Those other things being. . .?”

“Guitar,” Brendon says, “and piano. Drums. Some brass stuff.”

They stare back at her, and Brendon adds, “I have a lot of free time.”

“I feel like I’m going to be a teen movie cliché here,” Z says, “but this moment will be wasted if I don’t suggest something.”

“Please tell me it’s what I’m thinking,” Greta says, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh, it is,” Z replies. “Who can think of a good band name to encompass how cool we are?”

“I should probably mention that I’m grounded for a month for not telling my parents where I was last night,” Brendon says, but it’s hopeful, like what her home life’s been reduced to won’t matter so much since apparently they want her around. She’s told them enough that they know being her friend won’t be simple and starting an illicit band will be even less.

“Yeah, don’t worry about that,” Greta says. “We’ll handle it.”

“How about,” Tennessee says, framing her face with her hands, “the Tennessee Thomas Experience.”

Z snorts and grabs Tenn’s hand, lacing their fingers together and leading them all out into the hallway.

Before Brendon leaves them to get to her next class in time, Greta grabs her wrist and leans in to say, quietly, “Maybe stay up a little later than usual, tonight.” She doesn’t give Brendon any time to react before she’s gone, around the next corner. Brendon can still feel her fingers when she’s sitting in her desk after the bell rings.

*

That night, she pretends to go to sleep early, sitting in the dark until she knows that both of her parents have gone to bed. It’s after midnight, and she’s listening to one of Greta’s mixtapes on her headphones when she hears tapping on her window and looks up to see three pale faces in her window.

She jumps, covering her mouth to stop the noise building up in her throat. Rolling off the bed, she shuts off the stereo and shoves it back under her bed in one clean motion. When she opens the window, she hisses, “What are you _doing_?”

“Rescuing you,” Greta says. “Also, Tennessee’s thought of some truly awful band names that we need you to veto.”

Brendon looks behind her, worriedly, before she says, “My dad wakes up at five thirty every morning, I have to be back before then,” and takes the hand that Greta’s offering. Greta’s parked around the corner, and they pile in together, with Brendon in the back and Z and Tennessee sharing the passenger seat, tucked together under the same seatbelt.

They end up in Greta’s basement, which is full of scattered guitars and an old drum set that her parents bought her in lieu of spending time with her.

“They sound-proofed it, too,” she says, proudly. “It’s too bad I only have you guys, because I could have some awesome parties down here.”

“We could get you a keg,” Z says, dryly. “The jocks would come running.”

“And my young teenage life would finally be validated,” Greta says, “but no thanks. I think I prefer this.”

“Diet coke and angry song writing?” Brendon asks, passing her the two-liter.

Greta takes a drink from it.

“And spending time with _you_ ,” she says, lifting her legs to lay them over Brendon’s lap. Brendon holds onto her ankle and hopes the basement light’s bad enough that Greta won’t see her smile a little too hard.

“Is that a plural you?” Tennessee calls from across the room, where she’s messing around on the drums.

“Well,” Greta says. “I mean, you, _too_.”

“Oh,” Z says, walking over to steal the bottle from her. “I see how it is.”

“I can’t help how great I am,” Brendon says, and Greta laughs, leaning in to throw her arms around Brendon’s shoulders.

“It’s true,” she agrees.

By the end of the first week, Brendon’s on the keyboard because she’s the best at it, Z and Greta are both playing guitar and sharing singing duties, and Tennessee is constantly on the edge of destroying Greta’s drums. They mess around with their own ideas for songs and play strung out, awful covers that end with everyone crowding around the single mic trying to sing over the top of each other. Brendon’s never played music like this before. Music’s always been everything, it’s always been the only thing she’s let herself have, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been Greta screaming at the end of every line she sings or Tenn almost killing herself with a stray drumstick because she’s playing so hard or Z bringing her old, cheap acoustic to break against the basement wall.

It’s never been Brendon turning up the keyboard so loud that she’s sure the soundproofing won’t matter, singing along until her throat hurts then abandoning it at the same time Tenn drops her drumsticks to jump around in time with what’s left of the music.

She’s never felt so amazing before.

*

Brendon’s parents let her stay home from church the first Sunday after Tenn cuts her hair, but it wasn’t going to last. They’d don’t say it, because they don’t have to say anything to her anymore to let her know she’s not living up to their expectations, but they would rather everyone see everything her new hair might mean than not have her go to church at all.

People don’t really say anything to her, not directly. The adults exchange concerned looks, and the other kids in the youth group just look knowing and keep whispering about her. She’s dressed in a pale yellow sundress and a new white cardigan that was left on her bed the night before, black flats shined, but she looks like a contradiction because she can’t keep a real smile up.

Brendon’s standing by the back door with a cup of lemonade after church when Melissa Turner steps up behind her and taps on her shoulder.

“Nice hair,” she says, voice quiet and too pleasant.

Brendon turns around just enough to see that Melissa looks pleased with herself before turning away again.

“Thanks.”

“So, we were all wondering,” Melissa continues, “did you just give up because Jack didn’t want you or have you always been a dyke?”

Brendon bites her lip. She doesn’t know what she’s expected to say in this situation, but she’s pretty sure she’s expected to cry or run away or grow her hair back out so she looks normal enough again.

A small part of her newfound punk rock spirit wants to punch Melissa in the face and walk away like it’s no big deal, but instead she smiles so she’s showing her teeth and says, “I’ve just decided to stop hating myself. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

She gives Melissa a small wave and something that’s almost a smirk while she opens the door and backs out into the sunlight, circling around the church to sit on the hood of her parents’ car and wait for them to get ready to leave.

 

*

Their band gets better in small increments. They’re already pretty good at playing their instruments, and they’ve all been able to help each other get better, but lyrics turn out to be the hardest thing. Greta’s have too many metaphors, and Z keeps accidentally writing love songs for Tenn, and Brendon hasn’t managed to write any songs at all. She has no problem composing music, but she’s nervous about words. She’s never been good at them. She always talks too much or too little or says the wrong things, and she keeps shutting off when they ask her what she wants to write about. They all keep getting increasingly frustrated at each other, until one night when Z and Tennessee have retreated to the next room to talk, and Greta’s insisting on helping Brendon work out what she cares about enough to put into words on paper.

“You have to think about what makes you hurt,” Greta says, for the second time.

“I know, but I can’t think of what anyone else would want to hear about,” Brendon says, crossing her arms over her chest and angling her head away.

"Forget about everyone else, this is for you. Brendon, what makes you angry, really fucking angry?" Greta asks, almost yells. She's in Brendon's space but not touching her, and Brendon feels like she’s going to jump out of her skin. She dances away from Greta, moving to stand next to the sofa, shoulders hunched up.

"People thinking they know what's best for me without asking me," she says, quietly.

"You don't sound angry, Urie," Greta says, from behind her. Brendon rests fingers on the sofa’s arm and digs them in. Z and Tennessee are just in the next room, still, and Brendon knows what makes her angry, she _knows._

"The fact that I’ve been pretending for so long that I'm something I'm not just because I want my parents to love me," she says, in one long breath, and Greta moves closer to rest a hand against the small of her back, saying, "You got it, come on," against her neck. Brendon takes a deep breath and turns around to look at Greta, who looks fierce, pleased.

She says, "I'm tired of thinking, of _knowing_ they won't love me if I don't dress right, if I don't keep quiet or sit still or act like a-a fucking _lady_ , if I don't want to date some asshole who won't listen to me when I say _no_."

She barely gets the last part out, words like _fucking_ still foreign on her tongue, and Greta's face changes instantly, dropping down.

She says, hushed, "Oh, Bren, that's your song," and moves forward to wrap her arms around Brendon's waist carefully, almost like a question. Brendon sinks into her and hides her face in the neck of Greta's t-shirt, breathing in and out slowly, smelling her shampoo and her deodorant. She hears Z and Tennessee walk into the room, and when she looks up, Z's face looks wrecked and her eyes are wide when they meet Brendon's.

"You didn't tell us," she says, and Brendon shakes her head.

"I didn't tell anyone, except my parents," she replies, and Z moves forward to put her arms around Brendon, too, Tenn following closely behind. It’s warm between them, and Brendon starts to talk slowly, without hesitation, telling them everything. She tells them more than her parents know.

"Shit, Brendon," Z says. "Did they do something about it when you told them?”

"They thought I led him on,” she says. “Or they just didn’t want to think about it.”

"Fuck them,” Greta says. She pulls away, and her face looks different than anything Brendon’s ever seen before. Her eyes are blazing. “Fuck, seriously. . . _fuck_ them. You need to report him.”

“Nobody’s going to believe me over him,” she says, “not in the church.”

Greta says, “We still have to do _something_ ,” and stalks from the room. Brendon watches her leave, then turns to see Tennessee whispering something to Z, fingers curled against her face. She leans in and presses a kiss to Z’s cheek then goes to follow Greta, door clicking shut quietly behind her.

Z says, “Come sit with me,” voice rough and low, and Brendon lets herself be led to the sofa. She sits close to Z because she knows that she’s allowed and she’s needed the closeness, lately. Z presses their knees together and continues, “There’s something I haven’t told you, either.”

And then Z tells her a story about when she was thirteen, a time that she describes as: _before Tennessee moved here_. Her mother had just gotten remarried, and Z didn’t like her stepfather at all. It was just a feeling, at first, but then he started coming home early from work, before her mom got back, to be alone with Z.

“When I told Mom that he kept trying to touch me, that I had to lock myself in my room to get away from it,” she says, “she thought I was just trying to get attention.”

Brendon curls closer around Z, taking her hand, and Z’s lips turned up. She looks tired, too old for being so young.

“She believed me when she caught him in my room with his pants down and his hand over my mouth,” she says, “then it was good-bye, stepdad, hello, therapy.”

Brendon rests her head against Z’s shoulder, and Z sinks against her, nose pressed into her hair.

Brendon asks, after they’ve sat in silence for awhile, “Why did puberty turn our lives into after school specials?” and Z laughs, a little hollow.

“Because we’re girls,” she replies, “and everyone but us thinks we’re doomed for it.”

They stay like that until Greta walks back into the room. Her hair is piled up in a messy bun on the top of her head and her hands are resting on her hips. Tenn is standing behind her, looking triumphant.

“What are your thoughts on vandalizing private property?” Greta asks.

*

Brendon’s not actually sure how she feels about vandalism, but it doesn’t really seem to matter once Greta takes her up to her bedroom to change clothes. She digs out a black t-shirt from her dresser and tosses it to Brendon, who changes quickly, turned away. She tries not to stare too much when Greta pulls her own shirt over her head, but it’s hard in the small room not to focus in on her soft stomach, her breasts underneath black lace.

“We’re not going to get caught, are we?” she asks, in Greta’s car on the way there. They bought spray paint on the way, red and black, and Greta turns her head enough that Brendon can see she’s smiling.

“We’re stealth,” she says. “There’s no way.”

It’s past two in the morning when they get to his house. They park down the street and get out, whispering furiously to each other about what they’re going to do. Z hands Brendon the first can, and she shakes it while they get closer, staring at the driveway from behind the row of hedges.

His car is really nice, and none of the lights are on in the house, and Greta says, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Bren.”

Brendon wants to, though. It’s stupid and illegal and won’t really change anything at all, but it might make her feel better, if only for tonight.

Ten minutes later, they’re sprinting back to the car with the cans shaking in their hands as they go, and Jack’s windshield reads: NO MEANS NO in big, messy letters. The paint was already dripping when they left, but Brendon thinks he’s going to get the message pretty clearly.

When they fall into the car, Z and Tennessee pile on top of each other in the back, laughing, and Brendon can only really place how happy she is when Greta turns to her and winks, barely noticeable in the dark. They turn up the music loud on the way back, singing along until their throats hurt.

Afterwards, Greta walks Brendon home alone and kisses her in front of her bedroom window, just a soft press of lips and Greta’s fingers curling in the back of her hair.

She asks, soft, “You wanted that, right?” and Brendon laughs.

“God, yes,” she says. “You did, too?”

Greta just shakes her head.

“I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t,” she says. “And I definitely wouldn’t do it again.”

Brendon rocks on her toes, and Greta grins, lacing their fingers together and kissing her. She doesn’t move away this time, but lets Brendon control the pace, her arms around Greta’s waist until she has Greta pressed against her bedroom window.

“Your dad’s going to be awake soon,” Greta says, eventually, into Brendon’s mouth.

“Damn,” Brendon murmurs, and Greta laughs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” she asks, backing away. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and her hair’s a mess, tangled around her face.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, touching fingers to her lips.

She wants to tell Greta that it was her first real kiss, the first kiss she wanted, but she’s already gone, disappearing down the street.

She wants to tell her that she’s glad it was her.

*

In the morning, Greta’s waiting outside her first class, leaning against the wall with her head in a book. She’s wearing pink tights that are torn at the knees and combat boots with her name written across them in silver paint, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. When she looks up, she smiles slow.

“What are you reading?” Brendon asks.

“Gertrude Stein,” Greta replies, shutting the book and sliding it inside her back. “I think you’d like her.”

“Yeah?” Brendon asks, and Greta steps forward to kiss her. There’s nobody in the hallway, but Brendon still feels like it’s daring, like they’re making a statement by not hiding. She’s spent her whole life hiding. It feels good not to do it anymore.

When Z and Tennessee see them together at lunch, Z hands over ten dollars to Tenn before she says, “ _Wait_ , who made the first move?”

“She did,” Brendon says, rolling her eyes at them while Greta tightens her arm around her waist.

“ _Ha_ ,” Z says, and Tennessee gives her the money back.

“That’s what I get for betting on the underdog,” she says, ignoring Brendon’s half-hearted “ _Hey_ ,” and continuing on, “but at least I was right about you guys not making it a month before you gave in to your untoward urges.”

“We just kissed,” Greta says. “I didn’t ravish Bren in her bed while her parents were sleeping.”

Brendon chokes on the water she was drinking, bending over at the waist and coughing to hide the fact that her face has gone bright red at the idea of doing anything with Greta in her bed. When she looks up again, Greta’s watching her, and her cheeks are pink.

*

The next Sunday, Jack doesn’t make it to church. The minister says that he has the flu, and that they should pray for his quick recovery.

Brendon tries not to look too happy about it when she bows her head.

*

After two and a half months of being grounded and sneaking out almost every night to help form a loud, angry rock band, Brendon gets out on good behavior. Her parents have started to try to talk to her again, and she tries to make sure they can’t tell that anything’s changed. It’s almost okay, except for how none of them ever actually say anything.

She still has to sneak out every night, but sometimes her mom lets her take the bus into town by herself, and she can meet Greta at the first stop and stay at her house until she has to take the last bus to get home in time for her curfew.

In the mornings, Brendon still sits with her dad at the table while her mom makes dinner. She always steals the arts section of the newspaper from him to make the not-talking seem less awkward. She’s skimming a story about a Las Vegas mural artist when something catches her eye further down:

 **BATTLE OF THE VEGAS BANDS**

in obnoxiously giant letters with flames drawn around it. It looks completely ridiculous but in the best way, and she can’t help but notice that their nameless band meets all of the requirement besides actually having a name. They’ve only got a handful of songs that they can play straight through, and nobody outside of the band has ever heard them, but that doesn’t really mean anything.

Brendon downs her orange juice and gets up to find her shoes. Her dad doesn’t seem to notice that she takes the arts section with her.

She folds up the paper and keeps it in her bag until she sees Greta, who’s waiting at the entrance to the school. Brendon waits until her mom has driven away and bounds up to her, saying, “You’re probably going to think I’m crazy in about ten seconds.”

Greta raises her eyebrows, and Brendon leans up to kiss her on the cheek and shove the paper into her hands.

“. . .murals?” Greta asks, and Brendon waves a hand in the air.

“Below that.”

“Battle of the bands,” Greta reads aloud, “April 10th. Oh my god, does that really say _be there or be square?”_

“I’d hate to be square,” Brendon replies.

“April 10th is a week from now,” Greta points out. “It would be crazy to think we would win.”

“I think,” Brendon says, “that’s what _society_ would want us to think.”

Greta stares at her for a second before she starts laughing.

“You’re _such_ a fast learner,” she says. “I’m in.”

Later, Z and Tennessee agree as soon as they hear the phrase ‘battle of the bands,’ and Z says something about exposing Vegas to the revolution, and Tennessee just asks, “Do you guys realize we’ve mostly played poorly conceived Ramones covers?”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a week to practice the fuck out of one of our own songs,” Greta says, shrugging.

“No big deal,” Brendon says, and it really doesn’t feel like one. They’re great together. Why shouldn’t they show everyone?

*

They spend two nights out of the week staring at the songs they’ve written and trying to piece together scraps from others, but, on the second night, Tennessee says, “I hate to put a stop to all the agonizing we’ve been doing, but I think we know who’s written the best song here.”

“I hate to take my song against proms out of the mix,” Z agrees, “but yeah. I agree.”

Brendon has no idea what they’re talking about until Greta pulls out the song she wrote the night that Greta helped her, the one she wrote about Jack and about her parents and about everything that had happened over the past few months.

“No,” Brendon says, “I mean, Greta’s are—”

“Kind of shitty,” Greta interrupts. “Brendon, we’re all going to keep saying you’re amazing until you at least act like you believe it.”

“We’re doing your song,” Tenn says.

Brendon only agrees after she convinces Z to sing it, but they spend the rest of the week playing her words over and over.

*

Instead of sneaking Brendon out the night before the concert, Greta sneaks in. They didn’t time things well, and it was too late for Brendon to leave and still get home in time, so Greta just stood framed in the window for a few moments before she shrugged and climbed inside.

“We’ll just have to be very, _very_ quiet,” she’d whispered.

They kiss slowly, exploring like they haven’t before, Brendon lying on her bed with Greta straddling her hips. They’re too involved with each other, in Greta’s hands bracketing Brendon’s head and Brendon’s fingers sliding over Greta’s spine, under the waistband of her jeans and against the lace on her underwear.

Neither of them hear the door opening, because they’re not expecting it. After all, up until now, they’d been invincible.

It’s a sickening feeling when Brendon hears her mom gasp. It’s like she can feel everything getting ripped away from her all at once, and her mom is yelling before Brendon can understand what’s going on, yelling at her and at Greta, and Brendon says, “Go, go, you should leave,” but Greta just grabs her hand and holds on. Her dad comes in while her mom’s still yelling, and he looks shocked, and it just makes everything Brendon’s been feeling turn straight to anger.

He doesn’t get to look shocked.

“I tried to tell you,” she says, over her mom. “You knew, you _knew_ ,” and she tugs away from Greta to follow him when he walks away. He’s standing in the middle of the living room, his back to her.

“We’re going to fix this,” he says, hoarsely.

“What happened to there being nothing to _fix_?” she asks, and he turns around to look at her.

“Brendon,” he says, slowly, “you can’t live that sort of life, not here. I won’t allow it.”

When Greta steps up beside her and tangles their fingers together, tight and defiant, Brendon knows it’s okay to say, “Then I guess I don’t live here anymore.”

It’s rash and hard to get out, and it’s not something she’s even considered before, even after meeting her band, but nothing else makes sense. She knows her parents. If she goes along with this quietly, like she’s been trying to, they’ll never stop trying to make her into something she’s not. She can’t risk losing everything she’s gained. It means more than anything she’s ever had.

“ _Brendon_ ,” her mom chokes out, face twisted and tears falling, and Brendon turns and runs with Greta to her bedroom. Greta locks the door behind them while Brendon throws clothes and tapes into her schoolbag. Her dad’s still knocking on the door, telling her to open it, when they leave out the window.

Brendon keeps running until they’re down the street and Greta stops her, tugging on her hand.

“Bren, Brendon,” she gasps. “Are you okay?”

Brendon’s not crying, but she can feel tears burning behind her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says, and Greta nods and pulls her into a hug. It’s so late that the sun’s going to rise soon, and she just ran away from home, and Greta is pressing soft, closed-mouth kisses to her neck and whispering reassurances.

“You’re gonna stay with me, alright?” Greta says. “You’re living with me.”

Brendon nods, bending to rest her head against Greta’s collarbones, listening to her heart beating too fast.

“You’re amazing, Brendon,” Greta whispers, when Brendon doesn’t say anything else, and she thinks maybe Greta’s the one crying, now. “There’s nothing about you that I’d fix.”

Brendon takes in a sharp breath and stands up enough that she can kiss Greta hard, in the middle of the sidewalk. Her bag slides off her shoulder, and Greta’s fingers clutch at her back, holding on tight. She runs a hand over Greta’s wet face and curves it around her jaw, making it deeper, better. They kiss until they can’t think of anything else, about what’s going to happen tomorrow or about how it’s hot outside even in the middle of night so their skin is slick where they touch at thighs and arms and lips.

“Come on,” Greta says, breathless when they stop. “Let’s get you in bed.”

“Big day tomorrow,” Brendon says, hoarsely.

“Yeah,” Greta agrees, softly, and they walk home hand in hand.

They fall asleep together for the first time in Greta’s twin bed that’s tucked into the corner of her room, against the wall. There’s not even enough quilt for both of them, but Greta presses herself close to Brendon’s side and doesn’t let go. It takes Brendon too long to calm down, and she spends hours listening to Greta breathe until she can match the rhythm in her own breath and slowly slip into sleep.

*

They wake up late in the morning to sunlight through the open curtains and the sound of Greta’s phone ringing loud next to her ear. Brendon listens while Greta has a muffled conversation, and she can almost make out Z’s voice on the other line, loud and excited.

“We should get up and get ready,” Greta says, when she hangs up, and Brendon makes a sad noise.

“But it’s so nice here,” she murmurs, and Greta kisses behind her ear quickly before she slides out of bed. Brendon listens to her moving around for awhile before she sits up to watch.

“Hey, Greta?”

“Hmm?” Greta turns around from where she was going through her closet, eyebrows raised.

“Can you not tell them about my parents?” she asks, then continue quickly: “I mean, not until the show’s over. I don’t want them to worry yet.”

“Of course,” Greta says, and then her face turns from soft and careful to just on the edge of wicked. “Now. . . if I’m not mistaken, I think the world’s ready to see Brendon Urie in fishnets.”

“Are they?” Brendon asks, standing up to stand beside her.

“Well,” Greta says, leaning into her. “I am, at least.”

*

Z and Tennessee come over to get dressed with them, and Brendon lets Tennessee do her makeup before she retreats to Greta’s bathroom so she doesn’t have to change in front of them. There’s not a full-length mirror, so all Brendon can see is the way her eyes look wider and darker when they’re framed in black. She’s wearing one of Greta’s dresses, and it’s the first thing Brendon’s worn in a long time that comes above her knee.

"Damn," Z says, laughing in surprise when Brendon steps out. "You've been hiding some stuff from us, Bren."

"Yeah, where did these hips come from?" Tennessee steps up behind her to wrap an arm around her waist, waiting for Brendon to lean back into her before she presses fingers lightly against the top of her skirt. "And where have they been all my life?"

Z coughs significantly from where she's sitting cross-legged on Greta’s bed, reaching a hand out for Tenn to take.

"Don't tell me you can't appreciate Brendon's child bearing hips," Tenn says, falling into the seat next to her and pressing her nose into her neck.

"Don't say child bearing hips," Greta drawls, when she walks back into the room with an armful of water bottles. "It's gross." She looks around at them all, looking happy. She stops when she sees Brendon, though, and she raises her eyebrows. " _Damn_ , Brendon."

"I know, I know," Brendon says, biting her lip around a smile and a blush. "Hips."

"And ass," Greta adds.

"No, no, can we talk about her _face_?" Z shakes her head. "You can totally justify wearing the facepaint of the patriarchy when you look that hot."

Tennessee giggles, reaching up to touch the eyeliner spread thickly around Z’s eyes, smearing it at the edges.

Greta steps up to press a kiss to the corner of Brendon’s lips.

“We’re going to fucking _smash them_ ,” she says, softly, curling fingers around Brendon’s wrists.

“They’re not gonna know what hit them,” Brendon agrees, and Greta grins up close and kisses her again.

*

They’re at the sign up table at the venue, close enough to the strip that they can see the lights as the sun sets, when they realize they forgot to think of a name. Z throws out the first thing she can think of, and the guy running the table gives her a weird look when she says it.

“It’s from a Bikini Kill song,” she says, and he just stares back blankly.

“Which one of you girls is singing?” another guy asks. He’s smirking at them.

“Brendon is,” Greta says, putting a hand on Brendon’s shoulder, and she turns to stare at her.

“I _am_?” she asks, frantically. “I don’t even sing.”

“Uhm, you sing all the time,” Tennessee points out.

“You sing with us in the car and during practice,” Z says, “and when you’re trying to teach us the lyrics you’ve written.”

“It’s your song, Bren,” Greta says, firmly. “You’re the only one who’s going to sing it right.”

The song’s about people not listening to what you want, when all you want is to play music or to be left alone or to kiss a girl. It’s Brendon’s song, but she’s pretty sure Z can sing it better. She looks up to see her band watching her, faces set and expectant.

“Okay,” Brendon says, swallowing hard, because sometimes she really does have to believe them when they think she’s amazing. “I can do this.”

“Fuck yes, you can,” Tennessee says.

“ _We_ can,” Z agrees.

*

“Okay, are we sure we can do this?” Z asks when they’re backstage and about to go on, and Brendon laughs to ignore the fact that she wants to throw up at the sound of the crowd outside.

“Fuck yes,” Tennessee says, again, wrapping her arms around Z from behind.

When the announcer says, “Give a Vegas welcome to our only all girl band, _Be A Polite Girl_!” part of the crowd laughs, and Greta looks angry for a split second before she kisses Brendon once and pushes her towards the stage. She gets to the mic without stumbling over anything and looks out. The venue’s crammed full of people, and she’s just glad she can’t see their faces while she grips her guitar and waits for the rest of them to get in place.

By the time Brendon’s abandoned her bass on stage and is on her knees in front of Greta and her guitar, screaming the chorus, nobody’s laughing anymore.

*

They don’t win.

In fact, they lose _spectacularly_ , they don’t even place, but at some point it stopped being about winning and started just being about getting themselves onstage. Outside the venue, a few guys make comments about them that makes Brendon’s shoulders go tight and defensive, but more than a few come up and compliment them. They don’t stay long, though. Greta says something about being tired of looking at all these fucking Evan Dando wannabes and offers to buy them all coffee, and they walk out to the parking lot, holding on to each other.

After one cup and after curling up next to Greta in the tiny booth at the café, Brendon thinks she’s got so much energy right now that she’s probably never going to sleep again. She hasn’t even thought about her family all day, not really, nothing more than that tiny voice she’s banished to the back of her mind that’s worried all the time.

Looking across at Tennessee and Z drawing patterns in spilt sugar on the tabletop and feeling Greta’s soft hair against her neck, she actually thinks maybe she’s been thinking about her real family the whole time.


End file.
